The Betrayal
by peace and joyce
Summary: A spirited story of a girl's experience of the Hunger Games, and its tragic consequences.The First of the Leah Wishart trilogy.
1. The Wisharts of District 9

It all started with my granddaddy, Mitchie Abernathy. Mitchie was from District 12, but how I hear it, that ain't no nice place at all. Real dirty, is District 12; filled with stinking mines full of stinking coal.

But Mitchie was clever. My daddy used to say I was lot like him, old Mitchie; he didn't want to stay stuck in Twelve. He wanted to go all the way to the Capitol, but was only able to negotiate up to 9. Still, he learned everything there was to know 'bout grain farming. He wasn't doing too badly, but then that was an easier time, back before the Rebellion.

Before the Hunger Games.

See, my granddaddy got very excited about some things. He'd get an idea in his head and nothing could ever stop him doing it. So he joined the rebels.

Obviously they didn't win, the Capitol being the Capitol and all, but life went on, but this time the Capitol started them Hunger Games. Lots of the rebels got executed, my mamma used to say she'd see them swinging by them necks, like laundry on a line. But not my granddaddy; he went on right as rain. He continued his farming grain, getting big deals in the Capitol. Nobody knows how he didn't get the swing. My mamma said it was the "Abernathy charm" and he'd talked his way out of it. She also said that I should never mention granddaddy at school. I didn't know why; I always felt that my granddaddy was clever and a hero. But I did what my mamma said.

Mitchie looked after us, in District 9. There was my mamma, Carla Abernathy and Aunt Emmeline, who scared the hell out of me, when I was 7. Still does now; she gets a similar reaction out of everyone here. I get good grades when I bring Aunt Emmeline to Open Day at school.

She took over the grain business when granddaddy died and ran it for him. I've never seen anything like it. When Emmeline ran the show, nobody misbehaved.

I saw my mamma less and less, and then one day she went completely. All that was left of her things was on a side table in the hall: a jade bracelet, some old pink slippers and her wedding ring.

Nobody told me at the time, so I made my own ideas. I told everyone at school about how my mamma was kidnapped by the little green men from District 13. I got a Severe Warning from a Peacekeeper not to talk about District 13, much less the little green men from it. I asked why; and he cuffed me 'round the ear and said I was insolent. I guessed that District 13 must be some kind of new bad word, like the kind that daddy [John Wishart] used when he dropped something or burned dinner.

It weren't not a good day when my daddy told me the truth: my mamma had run off to the Capitol with a Peacekeeper and I wasn't ever gonna see her again. Turned out she wanted to be in the city of style, not stuck on the outlines of 9.

And I haven't never seen my mamma since, though she writes when she feels like it. On my first reaping you sent me a postcard and a pretty ribbon. She's hasn't written for over two years now.

My daddy moved on too, he met a lady called Harryo and they got married. I have a little brother now, he's Georg, and my sister's Nanaire. Nanaire's too young and too silly to do anything, but Georg is the best playmate you ever saw. We was always daring together; the Peacekeepers went nuts but they could never prove it was us. District 9, the corn fields, the tractor yards and granaries and bakeries- the best bakeries, are a playground to little kids. We were a big district, with a decent sized city centre. Loads of kids had tesserae, but we didn't have to. We had our own little world.

All it took was one day each year.


	2. You Reap What You Sow

"Leah Wishart."

That's what she said. That's what District 9's escort, Dalia said. She pulled the answer out of the reaping bowl and she read out my name. She read out Leah Wishart; and now I have to add my name to 11 girls from 9 who've lost their lives in the hunger games over the past 12 years.

Leah Wishart, the female tribute from 9, with less than 9 days to live.

I straighten up. These folks out here are gonna see Leah Wishart, the proud granddaughter of Mitchie Abernathy, and they gonna see her tall and proud to be from 9. She ain't gonna be some shrinkin' wallflower. I'm from 9 and I'm gonna die from 9!

Smoothing down my too-short dress, and praying that there ain't no ladder in my stockings, I made my way to the stage. Everything about me felt wrong. My hooped pigtails were wonky, my shoes were scuffed (darned it, I missed the bits at the toes) my white lace bolero (from Harryo's old net curtains) cut under the arms and my flowered dress (another set of ex-curtains) felt fine this morning, but sure as dandelions felt short and stupid now.

I looked out over the crowds on the stage and shifted from foot to foot. I tend to do that a lot. Rather than focussing on the scuff marks I look over the crowds to the fields of corn, wheat and barley. Darn it, I'll miss them fields. I never really realised quite how beautiful they were. I wanna to die looking at those fields, not the spotty face of some Career in the arena.

If I wasn't prepared for my name called out, I sure wasn't ready for the boy's.

"Georg Wishart."

I crumbled, and a howl I didn't how old screamed itself into the very grain growing over the fields. I would have to kill my brother in the Hunger Games. Or I would die myself.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Georg. He sure was fast. Hand on my elbow, he lifted me up. I search the crowds desperately. Surely someone was gonna volunteer. I would have.

Well maybe.

I saw Genny, my best friend ever. She shook her head at me and turned her back.

Dalia was looking very uncomfortable by now. Licking her fuchsia lips nervously, she said

"You may shake hands now."

We didn't shake hands. We're not strangers. We are not shaking our hands to confirm a deal, like folks in a marketplace. We're blood, my father's children.

We embraced, his chin cutting into my lacy shoulder. We hugged and hugged, and all the strength and might of Panem couldn't tear us apart. Try as he might, President Snow and his Hunger Games couldn't break us. We were the Wisharts of District 9, and we would never be separated.


	3. Highway to Hell

"Are we _on a train_?" Georg has never been so surprised at anythin'. Even when I found a six footer worm, he weren't that surprised. Turned out to be a dead adder, but hey I was dead pleased anyhow.

This ain't no train. I ain't soft; this ain't no train. We have trains in District 9; it's how the farmhands get to work. I go to school by the very same train. It ain't a pleasant ride. It's jerky and dusty- so bad the first time I went on it I was sick. The first class seats are under stuffed with mouldy foam, the second with straw. Edgerton from school swears that he found wood chippings in his seat once.

But this is one hell of a train! It moves so fast, you don't have time to see nothing. I barely had time to say goodbye to those beautiful fields that I played so many times in with Georg before we was whisked away to other districts, other sights to see. I couldn't help feelin a little sad. I'd never left 9 before. I'm the first girl to leave 9, and we're the only ones since Mitchie Abernathy to ever travel nowhere. I turn away from the window; Georg stays there. I can't help but think about the home- my only home that I might never see again.

The family- my only true family that I might never see again. Only one Wishart can come back from the arena. And it might not be either. I have even less chance than Georg.

To try and forget about what I left behind- Harryo hugging Georg and cryin' and cryin', Daddy lookin' at me like he never wanted to let me go; and Nanaire screaming and grabbin' Harryo, one of her light blue velvet ribbons undone on my old powder blue shoes.

The shoes my own mamma bought for me.

I go through to my room – _my _room, the only room I've ever had all to myself! I got out the big book that talked about the history of the Hunger Games. I quickly skipped most of it, skipping very fast past the bit about the first ever Games which sure weren't pretty- until I found just a few sentences, along with the emblem of 9. It's one of them things that you instantly like understand, connect with almost.

DISTRICT 9: GRAIN

District 9 is Panem's bread bowl, giving us the fertile harvest we need to keep rising as a nation. Its amber waves of grain are an inspiration to us all.

I can't stop smiling to read that. My district is a credit to Panem. 2 might be the darling of the Capitol, but 9 is an inspiration. Whatever an inspiration is. Sure it's somethin' good.

Dalia rings the bell for dinner and Georg and I are brought before her. Georg is mighty flushed 'cause he was runnin' up and down the train. Dalia was not pleased, but I can tell she way likes Georg over me. She surveys us both like we was cattle from 10. Not for the first time today I wish I was somewhere else.

Dalia is a spiteful little woman, a head shorter than me. We have to put up with her as mentor and as escort. She has been known to be terrible at gettin' sponsors for tributes; because she is so rude. She has piggy little eyes, stiff green hair and fat ankles that look just like the doughnuts I saw balanced on top of the bread rolls. They was yummy doughnuts; Georg and I smuggled six each to our rooms when nobody was looking. With all this good food, the Capitol must be real strict about stealing food. I wipe my mouth with my hand to check there ain't no frosting left.

Dalia beckons for us to sit; Georg does, but I'm feelin' insolent (Peacemaker bad word!) so I stay standing. Dalia raises her eyebrows.

"Does your mother buy your clothes? If so, get yourself adopted."

I feel myself go pink. Harryo took ages making these, her favourite curtains. And she ain't even my mother. I'll stay insolent.

"My mamma's in the Capitol with a Peacemaker."

Dalia scowls and I swiftly turn and flop onto a blue velvet chair, arms folded and equally scowly. Dalia huffs at me.

"No need to get huffy. Stroppiness gets no sponsors; and impetuosity makes for good television but little help for survival. "

"Well you can help me with sponsors can't ya?"

Dalia shakes her head and turns her attention to Georg.

"So my little cherub, looking forward to the Games?"

"No."

That's why I love my little brother. Dalia's like the cat's stolen her cream.

Sourly, Dalia stuffs her face with food. The Capitol food is nothin' like District fare. There are these puffy pastry things.

"What's this then?"

"Macaroons."

I shrug and try it. Chewy, tastes of almonds and vanilla. If I get my own Victor's House- the first in 9- then I definitely shall have these all the time.

I round on Dalia.

"Gonna tell us how to win? Or do we wing it on the day and hope for the best?"

Dalia finds my dialect odd.

"The second one."

Sleeping on the train is weird. My crib home was stable, Emmeline's old childhood bed. This one is comfier, but like all Capitol things I can't help wondrin' where it came from. Did a dead tribute once sleep in my bed tonight?

It's morning when we comes into the Capitol station. Crowds have assembled more people than I ever saw. So many bright colours, such detail everywhere- where do I look?

I wave and smile at them- they look so stupid I can't stop myself. They go mad at this recognition and I feel almost touched. Nobody's ever treated me like that, like some kind of celebrity. But then they maybe only see me once alive before the Games.

They bring me out; and I can hear the crowd murmuring at my dress, some very nice things they said about my lace bolero. If only they knew it was really old net curtains. I slightly overdo the smiling and waving- self-conscious all the time, but they never mind. I stick my tongue out at one- then stop in surprise.

He's an odd-looking boy, just a little older than Georg and a little bit taller. He has auburn curls, an upturned nose and a thin mouth. But what strikes me is the smell. He has a perfect white rosebud on his jacket; but it's such a strong smell it can't be real. He smiles at me- such a strange smile! As though he would know me, everything about me. It's scary, but it's exciting too.

Despite our bad rapport, I ask Dalia on the way to the Remake Centre-

"Who is that young boy? The one with the funny flower?"

"The one with the rosebud? Why, that's young Coriolanus Snow."


	4. Strut Your Stuff

I am stark in the nuddy pants. All ideas of clothing were swept away when Dalia handed me over to three ditzy women with just the darn words: "I'll just leave her in your capable hands."

I ain't never nude in front of strangers. Getting nude in front of people is just something we niners just don't do. This is so awkward. And I thought that the Games would be the worst thing about all this.

They are very odd, my "prep team". Charmian has her hair in a sort of complicated braid she calls "the Gordion knot." Iras has just spent the time leaping up and down screaming: "Ohmygod Ohmygod it's my first eva Hunger Games!" And Cymbeline... well, Cymbeline has long messy blond hair that stretches down her back in dreadlocks. They don't look as weird as someone of them Capitol folks, but they sure scare me a little. I wonder how Georg's getting along.

Then a pregnant woman in a navy blue jumpsuit comes in and all at once the preps are screamin' "Calpurnia!" And rushing to her like she's some kind of treasure. She turns and smiles at me, and chucks a robe at me, which I sure am happy to take.

Leading me into a side room, she gestures for me to sit down.

"Welcome, Tribute." She smiles, but in her eyes she is sad. Maybe she don't wanna let me go.

"So your costume for the parade. Any ideas?"

"I thought that was yo job."

She laughs. "It is. But I want to hear what you want."

'_Cause everyone wants to please a dying girl._

"Nothin' to make me look too stupid."

"Anything else?"

"I wanna be myself, right up until the arena."

"You are a good figure to work with. Tall- the tallest tribute I've seen so far. Now tell me- Leah, do you love your district?"

I nod. That sure is a question I can answer.

"Then be the patroness. Be Ceres."

Ceres? I'm not Ceres. I'm Leah.

"Who's Ceres?"

"Roman goddess of agriculture. It's where we get the word cereal. "

She may be the patron. But I ain't never heard of no Ceres.

Two hours later, and Calpurnia is gingerly leading me out to my chariot, where Georg is waiting as a dewy-eyed lady adds her final touches to his outfit.

I ain't never been so polished in all my life. District 9 sure likes to look good, but we ain't fussy. My face is glowing healthily; my hair is three times thicker and real shiny. Calpurnia used a gun shaped thing to blow my hair all over the place.

I'm walking funny because I have these high heeled sandals on. I'm 15 but I ain't never worn high heels on my feet before. I'm like a giantess; I totally tower over Georg who gives me this huge grin as I step onto the chariot. He is looking very sweet, dressed as a little cherub. I'm the only one wearing anything distinctly relating to grain.

"Nice hair," he says, flicking at my boa.

The boa is to remind people we are grain. It's like a feather boa, but instead of feathers it's made up of mini stalks of grain. I wondered whether it was real, so I took a tiny bite. It's not.

The chariots are supposed to be unique, but Calpurnia has friends in high places so she was able to negotiate to fancify our chariot. It's in what she calls "art nouveau style" but never mind what she calls it, it looks cool.

Adjusting the straw wreath on my head, worn with soft yellow silk ribbons, I get another of her beaming smiles.

"You two look amazing. Now, (she hands me a wicker basket) as soon as you're in sight of the Capitol people, scatter these seeds. Stand tall, smile, be confident. All that jazz. "

I grip the basket, balancing it on the chariot, careful not to spill any seeds yet. Georg looks at me, and says something I'll always remember.

"We are Wishart kids; now it's our turn to show them that."

I smile until I could not feel better. I pinch his bare shoulder and he giggles and I laugh back. It's almost like we were back home.

The others look over at us, and I register their expressions. The girl from 8, her face almost as green as her hair ribbons, looks especially bitter. But then, her district partner isn't as cute as Georg and he's dressed as a giant cotton reel. Not a good look.

The chariots jolt and I almost knock the wicker basket over. I grip my first handful of seeds and I can feel them quivering. Something big is going to happen.

As we get closer to the entrance, I can hear the strains of the national anthem and my eyes widen in surprise. I've heard The Horn of Plenty many many times, it's all we do in our music lessons in 9, but there Miss Keats just thunks it out on a piano. This is the loudest music I ever heard. The chariot almost shakes with the beat, and as I see them, I immediately begin to scatter the seeds far and wide.

The effect is overwhelming. As they hit the ground, they burst open and ears of wheat and corn and barley spring out. There is an appreciative roar from the audience, who snatch to try and get an ear. There are jealous hisses from the other tributes. No one looks at the dazzling diamonds sewn into 1's corsets. Or 2's marbled jumpsuits and heavy headdresses. Or 3's chainmail made of cogs and wheels. Or 4's mermaid. Or 5, 6&7. People laugh at 8. And 10. 11 and 12 aren't even looked at. It's all on 9.

As I scatter the last bunch of seeds, just as we park, I catch sight of Coriolanus Snow again. He nods at me, slyly. I can't get that boy's face out of my head. He is like nobody I have ever seen. And he scares me, though I'm twice his height on this chariot.

"Welcome, welcome!" It's President Cassius Crane. He has the face of a ferret and the eyes of a rabbit.

"Greetings! We welcome you to the Capitol, where we extol your virtues!" He gives a wheezy laugh and a fake smile. "Enjoy your time in the Capitol; and best of luck for the arena!" He laughs again.

This guy is so fake. The girl from 3 is actually silently sniggering. I catch her eye and she winks at me. I can't stop my grin.

The President sure doesn't look happy from our reaction to this big event of the year. He is ushered off after a longwinded drone so boring I wish he'd wheezy laugh so I can bond with the others more. But the Careers from 1 and 2 act like he's reciting pearls of wisdom. We are shown into out dressing rooms where we change and get ready to go the apartments.

Dalia and Calpurnia come in, both very pleased with themselves. =. Dalia's still trying to get cosy with Georg, but he likes me more.

"Off to bed now, early start tomorrow! It's off to the Training Centre!"

She gestures to our Avoxes, Titus and Tamora and we barely have time to admire our extensive apartments (and avoid eye contact with Titus and Tamora) before Dalia shunts us off to our separate bedrooms.

Training- what the heck am I supposed to show them Gamemakers? I'm tall, but I sure ain't strong. Them tributes I showed up are brimming with anger. The only one who even acted friendly was the girl from3, and 3 is famous for giving really sneaky tributes.

The parade was fun, but the Hunger Games are a reality; and I'll have to fight to the death.

They gonna find out the truth.

I don't stand a chance.


	5. Try as You Might

The night before training started, I prayed that it would all be OK. That I wouldn't chicken out; and could at least pass Ok in how to fight. Or even just have some idea how to get through. Or not get in the way.

But everything just got worse when we got to the Training Centre. In fact it was bad before we even got there.

In those days, you all had to wear skintight black leggings and a top which your District number roughly printed on it. The short sleeves of the top stuck out a lot, showing your entire arm. My plimsolls felt funny, like I was walking on foam.

I wanted my hair loose and natural like, to hide that creepy feeling you all sometimes get on your neck. But Calpurnia said a dead no.

"Leah, no" she said. "The time to show your looks is over. Now, we need to show practicality."

So I let her. I let her tie two braids and make them form loops on my head that made a bun.

I looked at myself in the mirror. I sure didn't look strong. I looked like a dumb ugly girl from 9, with no chance of ever winning the Hunger Games.

Georg looked pretty freaked out too, when we met at last. I couldn't never stop feeling sorry for him. He didn't look like a killer. He looked like my little brother who needed protection, just a little boy. He couldn't kill, because it was wrong and Harryo always said that he must do what was right. He looked at me, a head taller and he knew what I was thinking. Only one of us can win the Games.

If either win at all.

Nothing, no PE or games at home can ever prepare you for this. You have to have some kind of strategy to even have a fair chance. I have no idea.

The head trainer, Arsinoe, makes some kind of speech but I ain't listening. I can't hear her talk of the Hunger Games. Reminds me why I'm here. I look over the racks and racks of weapons. Half of them I have no clue what they are and the other half I wouldn't know how to use. It also looks like I won't get no opportunity neither. The Careers from 1, 2 & 4 are eyeing them up like they're sweets.

Despite Arsinoe's smooth talk about the importance of survival skills, everyone pretty much heads off for the physical stuff.

The Career Tributes scare me on screen and off. The ones from 1&2 are especially frightening. I hide behind a pillar and watch them a bit, too intimidated to do nothing much.

The girl from 1, Varnish I learned her name was, has found a way to attach deadly swinging blades to the ends of her bunches, so they swing dangerously whenever she turns her head. The trainer she fights with has to keep ducking.

Her partner, Sparkle, is fighting furiously with his trainer, using double edged swords to swipe at the retreating assistant.

Euler (who I remember as a volunteer from the Reaping on TV) has just chopped off the heads of three waxworks ever so easy; and a great hulking girl called Berenice (also from 2) is hacking them to smithereens with a huge spiky mace. The message is clear. Don't laugh your heads off at 1's names. And Berenice is not very nice.

A stack of books catches my eye. It's the plants and fungi section, but nobody ever bothers with it, so I got to check it out. Hopefully nobody gonna notice little old me. If we end up with loads of plants, I might not even have to fight for my food. I could look for them plants.

There are mushrooms with funny stalks, dark purple berries that look so devious, fruit or no fruit. I stare at them until my eyes water, tryin to burn them to memory. Best not rely on the Horn of Plenty. I'll make my own way in the Games. 'Cause I'm a Wishart; and that's what we do, what we've always done.

I did that for a couple of hours and I found a little recipe tucked into the back jacket. In spite of where I was, and what I would be forced to do, I smiled and smiled at the scribbled words. WORM OMELETTE. I stopped laughing when I read it. I never knew you could eat worms. I knew where to find them; we used to play with them in 9. If there's the right ground, I might have dinner sorted. They might not taste nice, but I could find some tasty herbs...

After stuffing my head with plants and recipes, I decide I need to defend myself. Worms I can handle tributes I can't.

A trainer comes over to me, pleased to be in the company of a tribute not grunting, shrieking in panic, showing off the muscles or attaching swinging knives.

"May I help you? Practice? Pick up some skills?"

I nod vigorously.

"What do you want to learn?"

"How to win the Hunger Games."

He remains unsmiling.

"Wouldn't we all, kid."

His name is Grumio; and he teaches me to how to wrestle someone to the ground. At first, my attempts are futile but gradually I get the rhythm of it and can knock him over, pin him down and reach for a (fake) weapon at the same time.

"Good. Very good." He says dispassionately. But I feel much better now that I can hold on at least for a while. With luck on my side, I should last up to a week. And for me, that's not bad going.

I wondered where Georg was; and what he was doing, and then I looked up and saw him. He was crouching over a patch of fake grass, and making a basic snare. Either side, cooing excitedly, were two girls: a tall girl of 17 with buck teeth, from 10; and a small girl; with three buns at the nape of her neck, from 6. Looked like he'd made allies already. The only two who hadn't scowled at me were the girl from 3 and the boy from 5, and both looked like they'd rather go it alone. I couldn't blame them.

That night, I was exhausted and fell asleep in the soft sheets almost immediately. But I woke up to the pitch black, and a lot of ruffling disturbances. Hidden I looked over to the living room where Dalia was pacing up and down, clutching at things.

"Can't believe this would be allowed to... the idea... President Crane won't like this... there goes another Head Gamemaker... and just before the Games too..."

I couldn't understand any of this, and I went back to sleep only to be shaken awake a few hours later. I saw the gap in the Training Centre the next day, but it was a few days until all was revealed.

The girl from 5 had gone to her bed, as we all had, fallen asleep- and died. Just like that. Must have had some kind of problem that took her in her sleep. It weren't all his fault, he couldn't know or stop it happening- but the Head Gamemaker was executed and replaced almost instantly. I was sad, but could only see things too far bad.

One down, twenty three to go, until a victor was revealed.


	6. An Unexpected Visitor

Training went on a pretty same tune: the Careers showing off, some trying to prove themselves, and us smart ones saving our talent for the Gamemakers. Georg and his allies huddle whispering strategy, and I keep to my shadows, as does the girl from 3 and others.

But the boy from 5 has changed his mind. The death of his partner has given him confidence and he is fighting with the girl from 4 who looks like she would gladly kill him.

Stupid people don't stand a chance. I will promptly make sure that I have absolutely _nothing_ to do with him.

I hid my eyes from watching him and more moments after committing a list of poisonous plants to memory I hear a groan of pain.

My eyes widen when I see what it was- steps away from me, the boy from 5 is lying with the head of a spear in his stomach. The owner of the spear is the girl from 4.

Another tribute hits the floor. That's what happens when you cross a Career. I'd better stay out of their way.

A Peacekeeper at the side of the centre fires a shot into the air, like them cannons in the arena.

Six more surround the girl from 4. She shrugs as if it is nothing to her, like she ain't gonna be taken away and executed immediately. The one who fired the shot shouts out: "Listen up everyone, no fighting in the training centre!"

We never saw the girl from 4 no more, and she didn't show up to the arena. She definitely kicked the bucket.

I just remember thinking "so that's what happens when you cross the Capitol."

And I never forgot that lesson.

That night I was alone in the sitting room in the apartment. Georg was still in awe at the luxury of it all. Then Dalia came in; (I didn't bother standing up) and she said stiffly:

"Leah, you have a visitor."

I leapt up; half thinkin' (and kinda hopin') it might be the Snow boy.

But it wasn't. It was a tall lady, once smiley and freckly, though that was hidden by a Capitol mask. She might have been changed; the new life she had made her immaculate and unreachable, but I knew immediately who it was, though I ain't seen her for years.

It was my mamma.

"Hey, Mom," I said, not sure if it was right.

She came forward as if to hug me, but stopped short. Perhaps Capitol manners got in the way.

"How are y' Mom?"

"I am very well, thank you."

"Why y' here?"

"I understand from my husband that you are to enter the Hunger Games."

"The Peacekeeper? You married him?"

"Him? No, I am married to Gamemaker Heavensbee, and I have children."

"They have replaced me, then?"

"Two sons. Twins; Pontius and Plutarch."

"So I am out of the way. Why visit me then? Georg!" I called him, but my mama held up her hand.

"No! Don't call him. He's not my son."

"And that upsets y'?"

She went pink.

"If we are talking about indiscretions, may I remind you to keep your distance from young Coriolanus Snow. "

"What about that?"

She snaps at my ignorance. 'Cause to all them folks I'm just a poor stoopid district girl. But I ain't. I'm a Wishart.

"Do not think, even if you win, that you can ever have anything to do with a son of a rich Capitol man. "

"You got a Gamemaker. And you're as much a Wishart as I am."

"I don't remember any District past. And neither should you."

"Then why are y' here? Talking to a District tribute?"

"I have a favour to ask. As your mother, it is about your token. I want you to wear my jade bracelet."

"Why? When my mama doesn't want nothin' to do with me?"

"It is what I wish; and the last I shall ask of you. Don't mention this meeting to anybody, keep your mouth shut and your head down."

"So that's Capitol protocol? To ignore the President's own scandals, not criticise nag or express any opinion they don't like?"

"Indeed. May the odds be ever in your favour."

It was my turn to get all embarrassed like.

"I have as much chance as anybody. Three are gone already, and the Games haven't started yet."

"District 5 may be out of the race, but District 4 is still strong. And it's a Career district. Nobody ever wins who isn't a Career."

"First time for anything."

"You have a lot to fear, Leah. You are playing a far dangerous game than this Panem pageant. Win and nobody will forget you; the girl from 9 who was the first non-Career victor, and the youngest too."

"I never asked to be different. I never wanted Georg or myself to even be involved in this stupid Hunger Games!"

"That is irrelevant, to the Capitol."


	7. Examination

I was dreading the individual sessions with the Gamemakers the entire time. My mama being married to a Gamemaker and all, that ain't gonna help me. I have to get through on my own two feet.

Other folks though, couldn't wait to impress the Capitol. Sparkle, from 1, was jittery with excitement when we was all waiting. He (and Varnish too) all came back from their sessions all smug looking.

I had to wait a year and a day to get in. By then, my hands was shaking I was so scared. But the Gamemakers didn't notice me much. After 7 they gets all pre occupied with them nice food, so they pretty much pull scores out of thin air- make 'em up. I kinda hoped they'd be in a good enough mood to give me a good score.

"Leah Wishart?" I said. They turned, almost surprised to see me there.

"I'm 15; and I'm from 9," They waved their hands at me to shoo me on. I matched up the plants and roots on the system they had. I think I got one or two wrong, but the main poisons were in there.

Obviously, watching me match up poisonous toadstools weren't much fun. I moved on quickly to wrestling and fighting hand to hand. I weren't much good at nothing really, so I did as much as I could. I tipped a tureen of leaves over and tiptoed across, making as little sound as I could. A few of them laughed, others just sat and scoffed. I did some running and then they shooed me off, about halfway through my time. That ain't good.

But then, some things you can't show through physicality, or to the Gamemakers. I can't show common sense, keeping my head in a crisis, the ability to keep out of the way and into the home and dry. Or taking an opportunity. Or even inventiveness.

Georg gave me a toothy smile as I went off to be sick after that disastrous time in the testing room. He's light on his toes; and clever too. He'd do fine.

So I weren't in too much of a good mood when we watched the scores over the TV that night. I slouched and snapped at Dalia.

All 24 tributes (or 21 in our case) get to see the scores, but only the tributes from 9 get to see the odds for 9. Each television is hijacked to show only the odds for that floor.

"An excellent group of tributes," says the commentator. My spirits rise, if only for a moment. I truly thought maybe I had lucked out on this one.

I hadn't. My luck went just like that.

All the tributes from 1&2 got tens. Girl from 3:5. Boy from 4- 7. Both from 6 get 6. The folks from 7 get _9_! The snide girl from 8 also gets a 6.

I get a 3. Ouch. The worst of the lot, even with the weedy bunch from 12. They both get 5&7.

Georg gets a 6, very respectable. "What did y' do?" I asked him.

"Camouflage," he says. "My allies both did camouflage too."

I can see Georg hiding and giggling with the girls from 6&10. Then there would be me, stone cold on the first day.

Then they give the odds for me; and also for Georg.

24:1.

Those are the odds of me winning the Hunger Games. 24 ways to lose, 1 way to win. One way to die for each tribute. Georg's odds are better; 20:1. I have no way to get out of this. I am going to be dead within a week, if I'm lucky. If I get past day 2, I'll thank my lucky stars. If I won- well, no need to bother thinking about _that_. There'll be mice on the moon first.

And Georg? Am I completely forgetting that he's going into it too? I'm selfish and stupid. I should try to stick by him, get him to win.

But in the place of darkness, I don't want to go with him. Don't want to watch my little brother die. I can only hope that he will look after himself. Maybe if his allies died, and hopefully the Careers too, I could find him and team up.

If I'm still there.

Dalia called me, told me to get ready for the interviews, where I'd be on show to everyone. Calpurnia wants me looking presentable, so I have to "scrub up."

Looking presentable? After what I've been told today about my chances, I'll need a hell of a lot of guts just to stand up on stage.


	8. Lights, Camera

It's the last night: and everybody knows it. Last chance to see the Capitol: to convince them that I have the chance to join the ranks of Victors. My awful score in training has deterred lots of potential sponsors, as Dalia keeps pointing out very bluntly. Five minutes, five minutes to give it my all.

Calpurnia doesn't say anything as she comes to dress me for the interviews. She don't even mention Training. She brings out a rail after I'm pampered and spoiled until I would look almost like a Capitol citizen, where it not for my freckles.

My dress is inky dark purple, loose and floaty. It's also quite short, but not tight. Long wafty drapes of purple chiffony silk, with a black bit at the top, a circular neckline stiff with jet beads. I've never seen such a dress in my life. What a shade of purple!

After effortlessly hooking up the back, Calpurnia twirls me around so that I can see myself in the mirror.

"It's perfect," I say, not knowing if I'm all there or not.

"That'll give the President ant in his pants," laughs Calpurnia.

"Why?" I say.

"'Cause purple is the colour of emperors. In the Capital, wearing purple is only for the richest and most powerful. You're a District girl, so there are no rules because you aren't a threat. But wearing purple at the interview shows that you are just as good as them. They'll see a mover and a shaker, and it will leave just the right impression for sponsors."

"Even with a 3 in training?"

"Play your cards right tonight, and that won't matter."

I wonder what she means by this, as Cymbelline wheels in a trolley with my accessories. Tights I could swear are almost invisible, black velvet strappy high heels that take me from five nine to six foot, and a black feather head piece that clips neatly to the side of my head.

Calpurnia is just weaving a black ribbon into my hair when Dalia comes in. Comes in, gives a little gasp, mouth open wide enough to catch flies in (as we District 9 like to say) and then hurries out. Possibly to tell the President that little Leah from 9 is wearing clothes in colours deep in purple to rival him.

These days, such an act of rebellion ends the life of a stylist in the wink of a mascara coated eye. But back then, the President weren't actually all that powerful, so snipes like mine were tolerated with a pinch of a lip.

Georg is looking fantastic in a smart black suit that Calpurnia made for him. He looks skinny, but older than he really is. Like me. His shows his broad shoulders and puppy fat disguised into muscles. His gorgeous curls are as beautiful and childlike as ever, so I'm glad that something of him from 9 remains.

Not some dummy of the Capitol's creation, made to look real.

Nine stylists aren't usually known for finery, but Calpurnia's efforts make me noticed once again by the others. I could be a Career, with my feathers and jet.

Varnish, in particular, looks like she would quite happily kill me, right here and now, if it wouldn't send her the same way as the girl from 4. The male tributes barely notice, and Berenice (in a baggy white men's suit- boy she don't need muscle padding to make her look tougher) just looks over me with total indifference. But Varnish is spitting nails. The Careers' stylists have the biggest budget of all of u, and little Varnish (five one- tiny!) is a red strapless dress, with thousand dollar red soled heels. Her bunches don't quite have diamond encrusted swinging blades attached, but her mousy conditioned bunches are tied with real posh red lace, and I could swear that those are real rubies beaded in her hair.

The girls from 3 and 8 are whispering over in the corner, confidentially, but I don't think they're allies. Maybe they're just nervous, and need someone to talk too. The girl from 3 smiles at me as I stride over to them. She's in demure baby pink frills and the girl from 8's back in lime green. She gives me the same surly look she gave me when I was Ceres and her partner was a cotton reel. But given scores and all, I definitely need to worry more about Varnish than I do about this gal.

"I like your _dress!_" says the girl from 3.

"Thanks," I say shyly. "Do we wait here? Do they call us when it's time?"

8 gestures to the large screen that dominates the wall. We watch the interviews from here, and then they call us to the stage through that," she gestures to a loudspeaker.

A chaperone comes in telling us to settle down, settle down. The Careers push everyone out of the way to get the best seats in front of the TV and the others hang in clusters as far away as possible from them. There are a few toughies here, but none of them strong enough to take on the Career pack.

"1, Female"

Everyone jumps at the sound- except Varnish. Flicking her hair like one of them posh models she gets up and struts off to the chaperone, who ferries tributes to the stage. (According to 8.)

The national anthem booms over the loudspeaker, followed by Isis Polava's upbeat theme. I always hated having to watch the Hunger Games, but the interviews were the most bearable. Isis was the interviewer for over sixty years; until her son, Caesar Flickerman, took over.

"Hello and welcome all, _darlings_" drawls Isis, giving her trademark cheeky smile as she winks her dark eyes. She's never had surgery, but her make-up is famous across the country. I could swear she never wears the same thing twice.

Her hair's piled up in a hairdo that reminds me of a cottage loaf. It's been dyed purple and white with a marbled effect, so it's clear she's supporting 2 this year (the idea about being biased never crossed Isis' mind.) Stuck through the middle of the dyed wonder, is a golden lightning bolt. Music notes dangle from her ears and if she walks in her dress she deserves a medal.

She lounges comfortably in her posh red chair; and introduces the first tribute. Striding like she owns the Capitol, Varnish enters.

The wait takes _forever. _

Varnish entices the audience with her simpering evilness. Sparkle does the same, only with less hair flicking. Euler is blunt and Berenice is downright bloodthirsty.

None of the others really need mentioning. The girl from 6 stutters terribly. The girl from 8 looks very pale and pasty on screen; and her district partner is very unsure of his answers. The boy from 7 mumbles like he's lookin' at his reflection in his shoes. Nobody so far has really made anyone laugh much. The audience must be getting ants in their lacy pants.

There's a mild screech of feedback.

"9, Female."

The stressed out chaperone ferries me up to the side of the stage, ignoring the looks I get for my dress.

"When she says your name, walk on and sit down."

There's no time to argue because:

"It's the gal with the grain, District 9's own LEAH WISHART!"

I stroll on, shoulders back and head high: the Wishart way of doing things.

Isis beams a charming smile at me as she stands up. She don't look riled, but there are gasps in the audience at my dress.

"Well, don't you look smashing girlfriend!" She poses confidently at the audience, hand on hip. I mirror her, pouting slightly; and the crowd goes wild. We take our seats and Isis gets straight down to it.

"So Leah...a 3... what do you want to say about that?" Her eyes are friendly. Maybe she's genuinely trying to help me get sponsors, trying to let me redeem myself.

"Well, Isis" I give a confidential smile to the audience. "Let's just say that some things you just can't show them Gamemakers." There's a laugh which I follow up with a wink. From the audience, I can see Coriolanus Snow smile at me, as if he's intrigued, and wants to hear more. I wonder why he is here, and I silly sad part of me hopes it's cause of me. Stupid thought. I bet his parent took him along; maybe they do it every year.

"So, what do your fellow tributes have to worry about?"

Uh oh. What can I possibly say? Then it hits me. I don't know what's gonna happen. With a Wishart, it could be anythin'.

"What don't they have to worry about?" The words get easier as I get more reckless. Who cares. Who really cares any more.

"I'm unpredictable. I could do anything. But listen up, y'all Gamemakers: I ain't going down without no fight!"

There's a cheer; and Isis is dying to get more out of this interview.

"Now that's what I call spirited, ladies and gentlemen!" she turns to a different tack. "Aside from the Games- say that you win, will your future be unpredictable? What could we expect from you as a victor?"

She's only asked this question to the Careers.

"Well, I got it all planned, ya see Isis. I'm gonna run a grain farm like my aunt Emmeline back in 9. And I'll tell ya folks, " I stand up and walk towards the audience, real geared up now, "y'all in the Capitol, y'all gonna buy my bread!"

There are whoops and a wave of claps.

The Careers really hate my guts now!

"Now I swear, a little birdie told me that coming up next is your own brother- Georg! This is a first for the Hunger Games. Tell us about you and him, in the arena."

I don't know. I don't know what is gonna happen to Georg. I've been so stupid, thinkin' only 'bout myself. I forget that Georg is marked to go too.

"Georg is my brother" I said, "and I love him 'cause he is. We're a team bound together, and I'll look out for him when it comes down to it. We're gonna make the Games famous, Isis! Him and I, we gonna do it as brother and sister, 'cause gawd damn it I love my little brother!"

There are sighs of empathy from everyone around. A few melodramatic old dames in the front row even clap their hands on their hearts.

"And ladies and gentlemen, isn't that what the Hunger Games are all about? The bond between brothers, the bond that holds together the people of Panem!" Isis is triumphant, and I get a clap like no other. "

The buzzer rings off and I do a flamboyant bow, a parody of Varnish's fay curtsey. There's a laugh, but as I leave the stage I can feel the glares of Careers on the back of my neck.

There are whispers from the Careers' side of the room that stop as soon as I come in. I could definitely catch Sparkle saying

".. yeah, that'll sure take the wind out of her sails..."

I stick my chin up and flop down next to the girl from 3, the only girl tribute I actually like in the Games.

Georg does very well, getting even more laughs than I did, but he does it cleverly, without steppin' on no Career toes. Only now do I realise actually what a good ally he'd be.

I've been so dumb. Dalia is gonna kill me, if the Careers don't get me first.

She just ignored me that evening as we got back. Calpurnia congratulated me and reassured my doubts about upsettin' no-one.

I lay in bed awake for a while. Georg was crying softly, I could hear him from next door. We Wishart girls never cry, but our men do get a bit teary every now and again. I didn't really get it. I was the one who had offended the toughest brutes of the bunch, given the Gamemakers the two fingers and had infuriated my mentor, who would get me zero sponsors.

But I woke up Georg anyway, and gave him a bear hug.

"Don't worry, y'all be fine- finer than me."

"Yeah, ya blow it Leah."

"Thanks."

He looked at me with his gap teeth and red eyes and I just needed to say something.

"Listen, Georg Wishart, ya listen to me! You're a Wishart, kid and we never give up. Ya might lose me but hell we'll show them. Remember Granddaddy? Remember Mitchie? He didn't let nobody put him down and he sure as hell annoyed a bunch of people. But boy, he stuck to his guns and he got it right. We gonna take a risk, but with Wishart luck, we could make it!"


	9. Who's For the Game?

I woke up early, on the morning I went into the Hunger Games. It was about six o'clock, but I wasn't the only one in the Capitol who was already up. The lights were on in every building as far as I could see, and the cars! I tried countin' em, and gave up. In 9, most folks use the bus or tram. The mayor has a nice car, real dandy, but he had to save up for almost 20 years to get one! In the Capitol, maybe they even have two!

I had a shower, just 'cause I wanted to savour for one more time that funny feeling ya git when it dries ya hair. I spent almost twenty minutes tryin' to work the darn thing.

There was a list of buttons all done the side, all them things y'all could perfume yourself to smell like. Buttercups, daisies, bubble gum, pine needles. I wondered how to git myself to smell like buttercups _and_ daisies, until I spotted a little one, thirteen from the bottom. (It was a fine big shower.)

Scentless.

I wondered what that would smell like, so I pushed the button.

After the shower I wondered back to my room to git a drink, 'cause I set the pressure too high on the water, and had git myself a darner of a headache.

I got dressed in my training gear, which you have to wear until you get to the Launch Room, 'cause they want to check you ain't smuggling nothin' in from the Capitol.

I ate a hell of a lot for breakfast, but Georg barely touched his food. Dalia sniffed.

"I wish you wouldn't eat so much."

" 'M godda die Dadia, " I said through a mouthful of food. " 'M godda eed how I lid."

[I'm gonna die Dalia, I'm gonna eat how I like.]

Ignoring me completely (nothin' changed then) she summoned us to the sittin' room to go over strategy.

"Well, you're dead Leah, frankly," was all the encouragement Dalia could give me. She smiled at Georg. "Remember sweetie, stick to your allies, look out and don't worry about the bloodbath- if you have allies you'll be able to defend yourself."

I stuck my tongue out at Dalia when she was leavin'. Not seeing her would be an advantage of being dead.

I was led out into the bright sunshine of a mornin', down to the hovercraft. Dalia didn't bother to say goodbye.

Georg was seated far from me in the hovercraft. There's no talking and not much eye contact, but Varnish was glaring at me the entire time.

"Give me your arm, please."

"Why?"

"Don't argue. Give me your arm."

Suspicious like, I gave my arm. She stuck a whopper of a syringe in and I sure winced when my tracker was put in. Varnish was grinnin' like it was her birthday.

"_If ya think that's pain," _her eyes wanted to say,_ "just wait to say what a whuppin' I'm gonna give ya."_

The windows darkened when we got to the arena, and the whole hovercraft sure was silent. I couldn't move. Lots of the other tributes couldn't stop movin'. The squirmy boy from 12 was jittering around like he really DID have ants in his pants. I wanted scream ma head off at him, but that would cause attention. I was waitin' for what felt like ages. I really thought that by the time we got there, maybe I'd be too old for the Hunger Games. But like so many things, y'all never too old.

We docked in the landing bay, and one by one we got escorted out of the hovercraft and into underground passages, tiled like a hospital, and sure dark.

I craned my head up at the ceiling when it was my time. I was right underneath the Cornucopia. I wondered if it was sensible for me to already hear the screams of the dead and dying. Either way, I heard 'em.

I had two Peacekeepers behind me, I turned round to smile at them, but they was like robots. C'mon, 'm gonna die- would it hurt to give me one last smile?

I got shoved in a room labelled FEMALE, 9. Then there was the first (and probably only) smile of the day. It was Calpurnia.

"Leah!" She seemed genuinely happy to see me and bounded over to embrace me.

She helped me dress (my hands sure were shakin'!). In them days, the range of outfits wasn't all that. I got a pair of combats which had that kind of buckle y'all get on airplanes and a V-necked top, with a raincoat (there's always a raincoat!) and a weird belt that had about a million different pockets. I didn't wanna think what those pockets would have to hold.

She sat me down on a chair and began to (sniffling) brush my still-damp hair and plait it for me. She did a funny sort of plait, taking hair from all parts of my head. I asked her what it was.

"A French plait," she said.

French? What it is French? I ain't got no idea why my hair is French, or whatever that is.

TEN MINUTES TO GO.

That is what they said. They meant ten minutes until the start of the Games. I saw it as ten minutes until I die.

Calpurnia wrenched me off my chair and gave me a warm hug. I checked my shoulder afterwards, and found it wet with tears. Maybe she really did care about me after all. I liked the thought that at least someone from the Capitol saw me as a person, not as a toy for entertainment. I hoped that Snow boy might too- maybe even sponsor me?

Calpurnia turned me around to face her, and she looked me straight in the eye, just like my aunt Emmeline used to do.

Used to do. Past tense already.

"Listen up, girl " she said. "You _can _do this. You don't need to be the best at fighting, or the strongest or fastest. Hell, girl you don't even need an education. What you need is to have a head that's screwed on straight. And I know that's you. "

"Me? I'll die in five minutes!" But Calpurnia shook her head.

"I don't think so. You aren't a girl who panics, and common sense isn't often in the Hunger Games. Think. Always have a plan. Be honest, don't kid yourself. Then you will have a greater chance than anyone will realise. "

"But I can't do that!"

"Anyone can. They just don't always try."

"Varnish hates me so-"

"The Hunger Games isn't about who's right. It's about whose left."

"But-"

"That's the point! The Games are not about murder. They're about survival. Just be the last tribute left alive."

"Easier said than done."

"I know. Just do your best, and luck willing- you will come back to me."

FIVE MINUTES TO GO.

"Oh shut up stupid loudspeaker!" Calpurnia was irate at being cut off mid flow, but she pushed me gently towards that strange glass tube.

I stood on that metal plate, the kind that eleven dead people would have stood on, and I was more frightened than I had ever been in my entire life. My feet couldn't grip in the walking boots. My hands were clammy as Capurnia regretfully shut the door on me and I touched the glass in goodbye. All them other folks would be eagerly jumping in, impatient with excitement. I had to be pushed like a little kid learnin' to walk, just to get inside the darned thing.

I waited. The metal tube gave a tiny jolt, but I nearly fell over. I guessed it was it. I saw Calpurnia's set face as she left the room to watch me die. I gave her a sad little salute with a cheesy grin. All she did was stand and gave me a luck sign, two crossed fingers.

I felt another jolt, and my plate began to rise, pushing me up and out into the arena. For a second or two, all I could see was the black of the tube. There was light, and there was the arena.

Here goes nothing, then.

ONE MINUTE TO GO

**LEAH WISHART WILL RETURN**

**IN THE SECOND OF THE WISHART TRILOGY**

**THE SABOTEUR!**


End file.
